Chaos In The Form of a Baby
by 221b-bagend-street-badwolf
Summary: Not all chaos is bad chaos, right? Moments in the lives of Sherlock and John with a child. Now a series of different oneshots. Johnlock. Parentlock. Warning: Language. A gift to the wonderful starrysummernights.
1. Chapter 1

_**So I've written a ridiculously long oneshot. This is dedicated to and for **starrysummernights**, a huge thank you for all you have done and continue to do for me as a writer. You've helped improve my self-belief and confidence as well as given me advice on my writing and generally been a lovely reviewer and person. As well as this, your exceptional talent at writing as helped me get through my school exams without completely losing it and freaking out! Haha =) **_

_**Thank you so much. Have some parent!lock. **_

_**Much love,**_

_-sparrow-_

* * *

The cursor moved to **_Inbox _**and John breathed in sharply. Balling his fist below his chin and subtly crossing the fingers that lay over the mousepad.

**_4 New Emails _**

_Promotional Offer - MensWearLtd_

No.

_Missed Appointment (Again) - Dr Moore _

Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock. Not again.

_No Subject - Anthea Smith (Mycroft Holmes)_

No.

_In Reply to Dr John H Watson-Holmes - London Adoption Agency Officials_

Holy fuck. It was here. It had arrived.

John let out the breath he'd been holding and shakily clicked on the _Open_ button. His heart hammered against his ribcage, a tiny twinge of excitement waiting to burst. He wet his lower lip and frowned as the email loaded and his eyes frantically searched it's contents for the crucial parts.

_We are pleased to inform, based on the positive response from our team after three consecutive meetings; including full inspection of accommodation, location, occupation, criminal and medical records and personal files, 4 letters of positive recommendation-_

Wow, four? John grinned in disbelief.

_and individual interviews with both potential parents, that your request to be granted legal allowance of adoption has been accepted. We are delighted to congratulate Dr John Hamish Watson-Holmes and Mr Sherlock Holmes-Watson on your acceptance and grant of this request. We feel you are adequate candidates for adopting a child into your home and family and look forward to hearing from you soon._

_Kind Regards,_  
_Mrs Barbara Kelly_  
_From The LAAO._

John's grin couldn't spread any wider even if you held him by the shoulders and asked him nicely.

They'd been granted. Him and Sherlock could now officially, legally, properly, with cherries on top, adopt a child. Together.

He sat back in his armchair, leaving the laptop on the coffee table, and wiped his fingers down the sides of his grinning mouth to meet at the centre of his bottom lip and pinch together as he shook his head, still in disbelief.  
He couldn't believe they'd done it. He was certain Sherlock would've blown it somehow. When the greying woman had told them both that they'd be undergoing private interviews John had practically given up there and then. If Sherlock's complete lack of respect for society hadn't done it John was certain his lack of knowledge on the things he disliked, like the solar system and _other people _would've knocked it on the head nicely.  
So it definitely came as a pleasant shock to see the interviewer leave the flat with a warm smile, a nod of thanks and a firm handshake from the otherwise-cold consulting detective. It needed not to be said that Sherlock was very much thanked that evening by John for 'whatever it is you did or said you bloody amazing idiot'.

'John, I need to borrow your phone again? Mine's completely dead and I've lost the charge cable- ... are you alright?' Sherlock entered the flat, shook off his coat and scarf as he spoke and then noticed his husband sat back with a look of deep thought etched across his features.  
'What? Oh, err, yeah. Yes, here.' John remained detached while he fumbled in his jeans pocket for his phone and held it out for Sherlock.  
The detective walked straight past the outstretched arm and instead crouched in front of the doctor, concerned. John pulled his arm back and his eyes remained fixed on a point on the wall opposite.

'What did it say?'

'Hmm?' John met Sherlock's eyes.

'The email, what did it say?'

'How do know you it's an email?'

'Oh please, I thought I didn't have to explain to you any longer. Just tell me what it said. Is it terribly bad news? Mycroft visiting?'

'No, no it's...it's not bad news at all, Sherlock.'

'So you're shocked then? Good news. What good news could it-? Ah. Oh! It's not, is it? Not this soon, they said within a few weeks. It's only been five days. John? Is it? Did they? Have we?'

John had to resist the urge to let his mouth drop open. Sherlock, crouched before him, was bumbling with uncharacteristic excitement. Fucking hell.

John smiled up at the detective and Sherlock grinned crookedly.

'Incredible. You know, I knew we would. Why wouldn't we? We're perfect. It was probably the high possibility that the child will earn a good education in biological science what with both of us being so intelligent at it and with hands-on experience for when he grows up a bit-'

'Sherlock.' John interrupted his husband's rambling with a light laugh and a hand on his forearm. 'Just slow down a bit, love.'

Sherlock grinned at him once again before shooting up onto his feet, eyes still locked on John's. 'Name. It'll need a name.' And with that he darted off in the direction of the front door, presumably to buy a Baby Name book, though John had a feeling they wouldn't need one.

* * *

'I've told you, Sherlock. We are not naming him Arthur, I actually point blank disallow it.' John made stern gestures with his hands and rubbed his forehead. He never knew Sherlock would become this excited over the new baby. He pushed the idea that Sherlock saw it as just another person to call him 'amazing' out of his mind.

John sat with pen poised at the ready to fill in the rest of document they'd been sent. All that was left was the name of the child and John decided it was now or never to speak his own idea.

'Well what then, John? Arthur is a highly intelligent name. It'll suit him, you'll see.'

'Yes but it's also a name that's likely to get the kid beaten up in the playground and laughed at in class. Besides, it has no personal meaning to either of us.'

'Dont be absurd, John. Our child is not going to attend school. We can teach him here. There's no need for him to learn how to draw a cat when he can be here with me learning the decomposition rate of plant material in acids.'

John sighed heavily.

'And how will he learn about things other than science? You know, how to read, write, interact with other people?'

Sherlock visibly stiffened and John suddenly felt extremely guilty.

'Look, Sherlock I didn't-'

'No, no it's fine, John. We both know people skills are more your thing. You can teach him the rest, you're more of the mother figure anyway.'

There was an awkward silence then. John chose to ignore the feminine remark and instead said one word.

'Hamish.'

Sherlock looked up at him for the first time since the book had been opened and his eyes were suddenly warm with realisation.

'Yes, Hamish. Is actually a much...better name than... Arthur. I prefer it.' Sherlock managed.

John smiled softly. 'Come here.'

Sherlock rose and moved to the kitchen where his husband kissed him sweetly. His eyes flicked to the paper and he noticed that Hamish Watson-Holmes was already written where **Name:** was printed in ink.

* * *

'Ugh!'

Another nail slipped out from under the screwdriver and Sherlock fell short of cursing loudly. An instruction manual lay torn to pieces on the floor beside him and he had a plastic packet of screws clenched between his teeth.

His curly fringe had fallen in front of his forehead and his brow was damp with sweat from concentrating. No other single job in his life had ever caused him to become so wound up and sweaty.

Burning hair to exactly four centimetres long? Easy.

How about metal rods to record melting points of the elements used? Piece of cake.

Measuring how long it takes a snake to shed it's skin on the kitchen worktop while John sits in the living room and trying to keep said blogger completely unawares? Simple as anything.

But attach a babygate to the top of the staircase at 221B? Hardest thing he'd ever faced.

John suddenly emerged in the doorway to their flat, a small, white, square cloth laid over his shoulder and a very tiny baby Hamish cradled in his arms to be winded. He bounced gently and subconsciously side to side while simultaneously patting baby Hamish on the back to encourage him. He smiled at the sight of his frustrated detective.

'You know you can get ones that don't need screwing don't you? They come with these knob things that you just fix and- ... what?' John stopped explaining when he notice the fixed glare he was recieving from his husband.

'That's not what I want. I want praise.' Sherlock grunted after letting the packet drop from his mouth to the floor.

'Well done.' John replied cockily and readjusted Hamish on his shoulder.

'Praise with _conviction._' Sherlock added. 'Look at me. I'm not typically the type of person to do this. I'm a person who finds it incredibly dull, I hate, despise, _loath_ DIY. The least you could give me is an 'Ooh, that's looking good, Sherlock. Thanks for doing this.' The dark-haired man shot him a flash of a fake smile and turned back to balancing the gate on his shoulder whole attempting to screw the blasted thing to the wall.

'Wow, that's bloody brilliant, Sherlock, does it come with a doorbell and letterbox?' John replied sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock paused in his movements but didn't respond or look at his husband.

'No, seriously.' John amended. 'I think it's a good thing, what you're doing. It's great. A really great thing for Hamish, you putting yourself out of your comfort zone like this.' He said truthfully and Sherlock slowly went back to screwing.

'... Thank you.'

'...and next time, I'll show you which screwdriver you _should_ have used that would have fit the screws properly.' John added with a laugh and ruffled Sherlock's hair before disappearing back into the flat with a sleepy Hamish.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock had agreed to go to the shop and restock on milk and baby powder so long as John changed Hamish's nappy in return.  
He really didn't like the smelly end of his son. Everything else was fine and easy to deal with, except the end that insisted on secreting muck every 20 minutes. To be honest, Sherlock was looking forward to the days when Hamish could walk and speak properly, feed himself and take himself to the toilet, help him with experiments and accompany them both to crime scenes.

Those days could not come fast enough for Sherlock.

He was heading back up the stairs, taking them two-by-two, shopping bag in hand to find John and Mrs Hudson stood at the top, the babygate swinging from John's hand and four screws discarded at his feet, one still dangling from the gate itself. He looked up guiltily when he noticed Sherlock had arrived.

'I'm sorry, it was my fault, Sherlock. It fell off in my hand.' John apologised and held the gate up in reference.

It had taken Sherlock a total of 7 hours, 48 minutes and 32 seconds to finally get that damned thing screwed to the wall and working.

'...You're an idiot.'

'Well that's a bit unnecessary, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson protested, 'He has apologised and I'm certain he didn't mean-'

'Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock interrupted harshly and grabbed the door from John's grip before stalking past them both and into the flat without another word.

John was about to rage back into the flat to argue back at his husband for being unreasonable, but his face fell when he heard the strangled starts of Hamish as he was woken from his sleep by the shouting and began to wail helplessly.

'...I'll go.' John said to Mrs Hudson when she began to follow the cries. He didn't want Sherlock shouting at her again.

* * *

He had expected this. It wasn't something he'd completely never thought of. It had occured to him, of course.

However the thought that Sherlock was, after all, a _genius _and therefore might not fall into the very large category of 'My Baby Changed My Life'. Even worse he never predicted the detective to fall under the subheading of 'My Baby Changed Me' and the sub category within that heading of 'Help Me My Husband Is Mad At Me Because I Can't Seem To Be Myself Now There's A New Baby In My Life.'

Of course, every new parent found themselves acting differently once a new baby was around. Their routines slipped into alternate ones to fit in the new life, eating habits changed so that you didn't feel ill eating at stupid hours of the morning when the baby was up crying and you were too busy feeding it earlier to find time to eat for yourself without your eyelids falling completely closed, and even your opinions of normal day-to-day things changed to fit the abstract bodyclock of your child.

Now, Sherlock being Sherlock, John had assumed that the detective wouldn't find too much difficulty in any of the above. His sleeping routine was virtually non-existent anyway, he didn't eat every day either, and his opinions of anything other than John, himself and The Work were few and far between let alone _positive_.

So naturally it came as a shock when John realised just how much Hamish had changed the stoic, dark-haired 'machine'. Instead of not being affected very much at all, Sherlock had become even more solitudinal and cold towards others. For some reason, instead of acting as the missing piece of steel-work to Sherlock's mechanical heart, Hamish appeared to be a piece that Sherlock was trying desperately to fit but couldn't find a place for, and as a result was scratching up the other pieces and causing them to jolt out of line with eachother.

John could see that Sherlock's drastic change in behaviour was due to him trying too hard to fit Hamish in to his life. John'd tried explaining that he didn't need to try so hard, it was something that would come naturally, if he just let it. Obviously cases affected Sherlock's attention span for poor little Hamish, but it was no excuse at all in John's eyes.

Sherlock had been bouncing off of the walls at first, at the thought of a new little person, a fresh hard-drive, that he could develop and progress however he liked, filling the boy with only details he thought mattered. Except he hadn't taken into account the fact that Hamish would be 'unfile-able' at first. A baby, far too young to be drilling scientific information into just yet. He could tell Sherlock would be a lot more comfortable once Hamish was old enough to speak, ask questions, praise his father.

In a sense, John was looking forward to that too. As any parent would. But he couldn't help but feel that Sherlock wasn't acting like a parent yet. Whatever he'd told the interviewer to persuade them obviously was not happening yet. And it annoyed John a little bit. He'd tried hard to get Sherlock to warm to the baby version of their son, helping them to bond and grow closer in Hamish's most vulnerable and crucial stage in his life. He tried explaining it to Sherlock in scientific ways, as if it would help. That Hamish was a helpless little new life, he needed moulding in the right way so that the direction in which he took when he grew older and was able to speak, walk, laugh, understand his fathers, was the right one.

'It's a bit like an experiment, Sherlock. Except this one can't afford any mistakes.' At this point Sherlock had shot him a hurt look. 'This experiment is a one-chance thing, the only way to get the desired outcome is to really aim for what you want. We want Hamish to be happy, healthy, have good relationships with both of us and be able to understand everything around him, yeah? So we need to really work to be close to him, help bond with him, so that he can have all that later on. As much as you think he is a lump of life that is yet to grow properly...he's not. In fact, he nearly pulled himself upright the other day.'

Sherlock at this point had looked up at John in surprise and his eyes flicked past the doctor to Hamish who was sat in the middle of the carpet in the living room, trying desperately to bite, or gum rather, at a plastic toy.

'No! Hamish! Don't put that in your mouth!' Sherlock shot up and darted straight past John, retrieving the toy from the baby and chucking it over his shoulder before picking Hamish up and resting him on his hip. 'We need to be more careful.' He pointed at Hamish and looked at John with raised eyebrows.

Then it hit him. Maybe just a little bit.

John was smiling at him, looking both impressed and shocked.

He was getting it. Slowly, but finally getting the jist of this.

Thank bloody god.

* * *

It was evening. Sherlock was laid out along the sofa, a magazine placed over his face and his hands folded on his stomach.

'Is your Father sleeping, Hamish? Is he? Shall we wake him up so he can change your nappy for Daddy?' John bounced a giggly Hamish on his knee and held him tight so he didn't bounce off.

'Absolutely not.' Sherlock mumbled from beneath the magazine and John sighed.

'You know, you are going to have to do it one day, Sherlock. I'll teach you if you like. But you're not getting away with never changing his nappy.'  
'Hmm.' Sherlock grunted and shifted over to his side, facing away from his husband and son.'Come on. What's the problem? You see blood, gore, dead bodies on a daily basis. What's wrong with a little bit of baby poo?'

'It's disgusting, that's what's wrong.' Sherlock's words were partly muffled by the sofa but John could still make them out. He continued to keep Hamish occupied on his knee while he fought to get his husband involved in some part of their son's babyhood.

'Okay, fine. You don't have to change him yet. But I bet he wouldn't be partial to a cuddle.'

Sherlock rolled back onto his back and turned his head to fix a confused stare at John.

John nodded his head in beckon and eventually Sherlock rose from the sofa, stepped over the table and stopped beside John's chair.

John stood, smiling at Sherlock. The detective took the baby, surprisingly naturally, and gently manoeuvred him into a cradled position, resting his head on his jacket-clad shoulder. Hamish breathed in a shaky breath as he relaxed against his Father and eventually snuggled his head closer.

'See? He's loves your cuddles, Sherlock. You've even made him sleepy, which is a godsend. He had a longer nap than usual earlier, thought he'd never go down tonight. But look at you both.' John stroked the back of Hamish's head soothingly.

Sherlock frowned at the shorter man.

'Why are you so naturally good at this and I just-...can't?'

John had been expecting this, but he remained as if unawares. 'What do you mean? Of course you're good at it! You just haven't let yourself try properly yet. Things like this, cuddles, little conversations with him now and again, feeding him, bathing him, changing his bloody nappy! They'll all help you bond with him, Sherlock.'

'Yes but I don't have time to do all that, John. The Work takes up most of my time, you know that.'

'Okay, so when you'd usually be shooting at the wall or destroying a game of Cluedo, come and get Hamish and sit with him for a bit. Play with him if he's awake enough or just cuddle him so he can sleep if he's tired. You'll have to let your world revolve around him, Sherlock. Especially at this age when he's so dependant.'

Sherlock looked at his sleeping son. His hair was beginning to grow thicker. It was dark, like his, but his nose and mouth were very much like John's. Which was surprising seeing as they'd adopted the child.

'You seem so much more experienced than me, John.'

John smiled and reached up to hold Sherlock's neck lovingly, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb and bringing their foreheads together.

'You'll get there.' He whispered before kissing him softly.

* * *

'Come on, come to me Hamish.' Sherlock held his arms open for his son.

Hamish had now successfully begun pulling himself up and holding onto things; like John's chair or John's leg or the coffee table. (Which John wasn't very happy about when he saw the half-used petri dish that Hamish had narrowly missed with his chubby fingers the first time he'd done it.)

Hamish wobbled on his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the sofa seat and the other now dabbing his fingers just inside his open mouth. He pulled his hand away and grinned a wide, open-mouthed grin at his father, at the same time waving his saliva-covered hand up and down.

'That's it, come on Hamish. Come to me.' Sherlock beckoned again. He was beginning to grow impatient. 'Come on, Hamish. All you have to do is put one cottoned-shoed foot in front of the other it's not that hard.'

'More gentle.' John encouraged as he walked past them and into the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his arms out further. 'Come on, little one.' He put on a fake voice. 'Come and walky over to Daddy.'

'I thought I was Daddy?' John spoke from in the kitchen where he was dishing out tea bags into two mugs.

'What?' Sherlock never took his eyes off his son as he answered John. 'No I'm Daddy.' '

We can't both be Daddy. You're Father.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'Look, you want me to bond with him-' John shot him a glare. '_I _want me to bond with him. I just don't think Father is a good name for me. Its very...detached.'

'Okay, how about Papa?'

'We're not French.'

'Dad?'

'Too similar to yours.'

'How about Daddy One and Daddy Two? No prizes for guessing which of you is which.' Came a snarky suggestion from the doorway to their flat.

Sherlock grit his teeth and turned back to his son who was now slumped on his bum, his fingers back in his mouth.

'Brother, dear. How wonderful you could drop by.' He almost snarled and picked Hamish up.

'To see my nephew. I presumed you'd be doing nothing?' He made a comment towards Sherlock's lack of cases recently and the detective pulled a face at his brother. He bounced Hamish up and down a bit, turning his attention back to him instead and whispering to him about how Uncle Mycroft was a snob and he didn't have to like him if he didn't want to.

'Tea?' John offered.

'No, thank you. I don't intend to be long.'

'Oh, isn't that good, Hamish?' Sherlock pretended to be talking to his son. 'Uncle Mycroft's leaving soon! Is that good?' John had to stifle his laugh when Hamish innocently nodded once, eagerly, unknowingly agreeing with his father. 'Yes it is!' Sherlock smiled at Hamish as he walked past Mycroft towards the bedroom, glared at his brother then smiled at Hamish once again once they'd passed him.

John chuckled and went back to making the tea.

Mycroft adjusted his balance on his umbrella, 'I see he's making progress with him. I supposed he would.' He inspected the end of his umbrella before placing it on the floor again. 'Terribly out of character for him, but still. It's what's best for the child.' He flashed a sort-of smile at John before reaching into his breast pocket. 'Here, Dr Watson.'

John cleared his throat.

'My apologies, Dr Watson-_Holmes_.' He amended and dropped an envelope on the kitchen counter in a space where there was no acidic substance or baby food jar. 'Just a little something from the Uncle, please don't mention it.'

John looked inside the envelope questioningly, his eyebrows nearly disappeared above his hairline when he realised how much was in there. 'Mycroft, this is too much. Thank you, but we can't-'

'I said don't mention it, John.' Mycroft interrupted, gesturing with his head in the direction of where Sherlock was emerging from the bedroom, minus Hamish.

'He's just gone down. All it took was a few minutes holding his hand. He's getting better at that.' Sherlock took his usual seat up at the counter and began putting on a pair of rubber gloves. 'How much as he attempted to give us, John?' He asked without so much as glancing at Mycroft or the envelope.

John paused. Of course Sherlock would know what they'd been talking about.

He remained silent for a few more moments, exchanging eye contact with the elder Holmes brother and the top of his husband's head alternately before clearing his throat and answering, 'Ahem, erm...eight hundred...and a bit.'

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at his brother with an odd look. 'Yes well, nice try.' He returned to his microscope and added. 'You can give it back now, John.'

'Sherlock, I really think it'd be handy for us...for Hamish.' John began.

'You do realise what he's doing, don't you? He's only doing it so that we'll end up owing him. Trust me, I've owed people before. Not something I'd like to return to. Especially with my brother.'

'You do know he'll just transfer it straight to our account if I give it back, don't you?' John added slightly mimicking his husband.

Mycroft gave John an impressed look even though the doctor didn't notice it.

'Yes, I expect so.' Sherlock hopped down from the stool he was on and disappeared into the lounge. 'And next time, and the time after that, no doubt.'

John frowned to himself and put the envelope down. He was about to slide it back towards Mycroft when he noticed the elder Holmes had gone.

* * *

'So that's how you can tell if an alkali is present or not.' Sherlock sat with a 4-year-old Hamish on his knee at the kitchen counter.

'I'm bored now, Sh'lock.' Hamish attempted to get down and Sherlock sighed and let him.

John walked past Hamish as he toddled towards the living room and smiled sympathetically at the deflated detective. He placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed to top of his curly head affectionately.

'Give it a bit longer, Sherlock. He'll get interested eventually. Just be patient, love.' He spoke softly.

'It's bad enough he's calling me by my name, John. But he's got no interest in me or anything I do.' Sherlock began packing up the kit he'd been using with Hamish. He picked up this tidying habit once he realised it could potentially put their son in danger if he left everything out like he used to. 'This is hastily becoming scarily similar to someone else's childhood I know of.'

John sighed and lifted Sherlock's chin to make the detective look at him. 'You're doing fine. He's four years old, yes at the moment his interests are more in fire engines and puzzles than in chemical science and ionic reactions. But you will get there. If you still don't believe iun yourself, believe in that.' He said almost sternly, desperately trying to get through to the man. 'Okay?'

Sherlock nodded, John half expected his bottom lip to stick out and he momentarily forgot which one was four-year-old he was looking after.

'Good.' He chuckled and pecked him on the lips softly. 'I'm proud of you, you daft genius.'

* * *

'I told you, Lestrade. I'm clean. Why on earth would I have drugs around my son?' Sherlock argued with the detective inspector.

John gripped a 5-year-old Hamish's hand tightly, keeping him away from the police crew who were turning the flat upside-down.

'Oi, freak. No eyeballs? Shame that. I was looking forward to those.' Donovan sneered from the kitchen and Sherlock shot her a glare.

'Check the freezer drawers, I'm sure you'll find something satisfactory in there. I think I put some pig testicles in there the other day, should be similar to what you're used to.' The detective quipped, shooting an amused smirk at Anderson and John rolled his eyes.

'Sherlock.' John brought his husband's attention back to their son who was standing beside his Dad innocently watching a policeman empty his box of toys onto the floor.

'Anderson, Donovan, just do your jobs.' Lestrade instructed and Hamish's head whipped round when he saw the two that the inspector had scolded.

'Ander and Don'van.' Hamish worked his mouth around the new words. Long ones he still had trouble with sometimes.

'Ssh, Hamish. Good boy, stay quiet.' John squeezed his son's hand gently.

'Ander and Don'van!' Hamish shouted louder and Lestrade started to laugh, along with several of the crew around them.

'Ander is a man, Don'van is a girl!' Hamish continued.

Sherlock was watching his son intently, knowing full-well what was going through his little mind.

'Good, Hamish. What else?'

'Sherlock, don't encourage him...' John groaned.

'No, he's fine. Come on, Hamish. What else do you see?' Sherlock asked gently.

Hamish paused, his hand in his mouth and frowned intently without speaking again.

'See? He's shy now, well done.' John reached to pick him up.

'Ander is a man, Don'van is a girl but Don'van doesn't think Ander acts like a real man. She thinks he's like a girl too sometimes. She wants him to be more like a man.' Hamish grinned.

Sherlock grinned proudly at his son and looked at Lestrade, boasting his pride. Even John was stifling a smile at Anderson and Donovan's joint shocked looks.

'And Ander had cheese for lunch today.' Hamish added.

At that point, several people burst out laughing, some out of Hamish's adorable innocence and some out of the fact that Hamish had become just like Sherlock, no doubt much to Ander and Don'van's dismay. No prizes for guessing who laughed for what reason.

* * *

John grinned into the kiss. His husband's arms were tightly wrapped around his middle and John's own were pinned against the detective's chest. He got a grip on Sherlock's coat lapels and managed to use them to pull himself away a little.

He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a different voice than the one Sherlock had been expecting to hear sounded throughout the flat.

'Do you two have to do that? I thought we were leaving for a case?'

Both men's heads snapped to Hamish, he was stood to their left, his dark hair had very slight curls at the ends, he was wearing his coat and new scarf John had bought him the other day and it was just a shade lighter than Sherlock's. His 10-year-old eyebrows were quirked into a frown and he was carrying a small case with him.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement and he let go of John to step towards his son.

'And what makes you think you're coming?' He played stern, not bending to meet his son's level, instead remaining tall and towering.

'Dad.' Hamish pointed past Sherlock at John who frowned momentarily as if forgetting what Hamish meant.

Sherlock wheeled round to look at John. 'Now?'

John nodded, 'I think so, don't you?'

Sherlock turned back to their son, this time crouching to his level and wiping his fringe out of his eyes.

'Now listen, Hamish. Dead bodies aren't to be poked, prodded, jumped on, hit or anything else of that sort, okay? You'll just have to stand with John and behave, yes? And if-'

'Sherlock.' John interrupted. 'More gentle.'

Sherlock frowned deeply. Rolling his eyes, John crouched down with the detective and took over.

'Your Dad's job...can be dangerous. You might see some things that you won't like, or hear about people who aren't very nice. Now as long as you look but don't touch, you'll be fine. We both promise to keep you safe and out of harm's way.' He paused, glancing at Sherlock. 'Now, when your Dad gets to the crime scenes...he often...goes a bit...weird. Not himself. But because we love him, we just let him do it, yeah?' He chuckled a little and Hamish grinned when he saw Sherlock pull a face.

Their son nodded eagerly.

'Right.' Sherlock stood up and adjusted his scarf. 'Remember what I taught you, Hamish?'

The boy nodded again and John frowned in confusion.

'The game...' Sherlock began.

'Is on!' Hamish replied and high-fived his father.

John rolled his eyes and ushered both of them out of the door.

It seemed he was the mother figure after all.

* * *

**_So just to let you know, I know absolutely nothing about the process of applying for adoption or anything like that. If any facts are wrong then that's why. I actually pretty much made it up from scratch so it probably is wrong! =)_**

**_-sparrow- _**


	2. Chapter 2

_**So I've decided, probably badly, that I'm going to make this a series of parentlock oneshots. Relatively long in length. Obviously, because of Text Message and Just A Kid, the updates will not be regular and not often either. But I hope you enjoy them all the same! **_

_**Warning for language. **_

* * *

When Greg Lestrade had hurriedly come to the flat to plead for John and Sherlock's help, John had assumed it was for a new case. Sherlock hadn't received one for a few days so it was a perfectly acceptable conclusion to jump to when he'd received the text:

_Really need your help, John mate. I'll be at the flat in 10 mins. V. important. - Greg_

So, of course, when the detective inspector had rushed into the living room it surprised both John and Sherlock (who was laid out along the sofa in his usual position). John immediately sprung up to greet the man, Sherlock stayed put, eyes closed.

"John. Look, I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate…" Lestrade began.

"What's wrong?" John frowned, expecting an unsolved murder case or news on another unfortunate Londoner and was instead met with a concern that filled Lestrade's eyes, a panicked concern John'd never witnessed before.

"It's my daughter. Lily, my youngest." His voice was strained.

"What? What's happened? Is she ok?" John's doctor instincts kicked in, combined with his concern for the daughter of his friend.

"No, no, John _she's _fine. It's just…well I've got that thing in Cardiff this weekend and Marie has refused to take the kids because she's meeting her friends in _Lester. _Jake's fine on his own for the weekend but I can't leave Lily with him." He was huffing and kept running his hands through his hair. "-and my Mum can't have them because she's having her whole downstairs _renovated _and is staying in a B&B with _Kevin Hogner!__"_

John had no idea who Kevin Kogner was. Nor had he ever been informed that Marie was Lestrade's ex-wife's name. He simply had to assume so as well as take on the chin the fact that Lestrade sounded like a stressed out schoolgirl spreading negative gossip.

"Wait, you want us to have her?" John suddenly caught up with what he was being asked of. "I don't know, Greg. I'm not even an Uncle and what with Sherlock-"

"_Please_, mate. Like I said, I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate. And she's relatively quiet, she won't cause a fuss. And I'm sure Sherlock could restrict his…experiments." The man pleaded. "Just for the weekend. I've really got no one else to turn to."

John rubbed a hand over his face, glancing at Sherlock for a second. He noticed that the consulting detective's hands were no longer steepled beneath his chin. He had stopped thinking and was listening intently. Something John had started being able to pick up on for a while now.

"Um…" John thought hard, wetting his bottom lip and running his forefinger and thumb down his mouth to dry it again. "I mean…I would but it's just…it's Sherlock, I don't-"

Sherlock suddenly lifted up off the sofa and strode over to the pair in one fluid motion.

"John and I agree."

"Really? You'll do it?" Lestrade's face lit up but John was too busy gaping at Sherlock like he'd grown a second head to notice.

"Yes. We hereby both agree to take your little offspring under our care for the duration of two days and nights and no longer." Sherlock left to fetch something from his desk and returned a second later with a pad of paper and a pen.

"Sign here to say you agree to those terms. I trust you understand childcare is no easy task? We will be expecting utmost respect of these pre-agreed terms and your child to be explicably behaved at all-"

"Sherlock." John interrupted, finally realising just what a mistake this could potentially be.

Sherlock stared a John for a moment, then added, without looking at the detective inspector, his eyes still fixed on the side of John's head. "We will take Lily in our care." Before disappearing out of the living room and into his bedroom without another sound.

"Listen, thanks mate. You're a godsend. I'll bring Lily over Friday evening." Lestrade stumbled his apology as he made his way backwards out of the flat. "Thanks a bunch!"

And he was gone.

John sighed. His gaze found the closed door of Sherlock's bedroom and he sighed again. Turning to the kitchen to put the kettle on, he thought over what they'd both just agreed to do. They'd just agreed to be responsible for a young child.

Responsible.

They were effectively the responsible adults for this child. Temporary guardians.

"Oh shit…" John sighed under his breath, suddenly very concerned for how Lestrade's daughter would turn out after having spent a weekend at 221B. Utterly convinced it would ruin her chances at a healthy, prosperous life somehow. "We're fucked…_she's_ fucked…"

* * *

Lily turned out to be one of the sweetest children John had ever met. He wasn't a paedectrician, so seeing children at work wasn't normally a long-winded thing. He'd simply diagnose them and decide whether they needed further consultation or whether it was something 'Mummy could handle'.

As the daughter of Lestrade, John wasn't expecting anything much different from what Lily turned out to be. She was calm, quiet and polite. Only five years old but Lestrade, despite his busy schedule, had managed to raise her to be a very mature little girl. She didn't speak much, but her thanks were in the form of nods and her pleas were either mumbled or smiled gently.

John would've said her eating habits weren't that of a normal five year old, but then again, he harboured his very own toddler, who's eating habits were even stranger than Lily's. The doctor found she ate and drank more than Sherlock which caused his worry over his six-year old to spike further.

"Is she still asleep?" Sherlock glanced into their bedroom where they'd set up her bed in the corner. There was just enough room to manoeuvre around it and not have to climb over their bed. The room was semi-dark and he could just make out a small lump beneath her pink covers.

"Yes, Sherlock. She is. Come away, the longer she is asleep the better. She didn't get to sleep last night till almost 10:00." John replied, drying up some crockery with a tea towel. He half-whispered, half-shouted across the kitchen to the detective stood at their bedroom door. "Just leave her a bit longer."

Sherlock huffed and slumped his shoulders, rolled his head and groaned a quietly as he could. "But my microscope cleaning rag is in my underwear drawer! I need it, John!"

"Well you'll just have to wait, Sherlock. It'll only be for one more night. Besides, I think she's a sweetie." John turned his back on the detective as he reached up to put away a bowl in the cupboard above him.

Sherlock stared at John. "Sweetie? Isn't that a name for confectionary? Are you saying you want to eat Lestrade's child? Because that's very weird, John."

"Don't be so ridiculous, Sherlock. I'm saying she's sweet. Well-mannered, quiet, cute. Lestrade should be very proud." John explained and refrained from smacking his detective over the head with the tea towel.

"Hmm." Was all the detective had as a reply and John turned back to face him.

"You'll see. Just wait and you'll call her a sweetie too."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and the doctor realised his mistake. "Well, you'll _think_ it at least." He corrected.

Sherlock returned to sulking in wait.

* * *

Lily Lestrade had very blonde hair, unlike her father who Sherlock could easily work out was dark-haired before the grey attacked. John was right though. She was very quiet and well-mannered.

He sat at the moment, in his armchair, hands steepled beneath his chin. Lily sat on the sofa across the room, eating a packet of crisps. John had popped out to see to a patient Sarah needed help with. After totally regretting his decision to tell Sarah he'd be there, he finally left Sherlock with a stern 'Don't let her touch anything of yours. No chemicals. No violin. No _experiments. _Got it?' and Sherlock had replied with a simple 'Yes, John. She'll be fine.'

They both now sat in silence. The only sounds were John's whirring laptop and Lily's crisp munching. Her legs dangled off the edge of the sofa but didn't quite reach the floor. Her hair was down and Sherlock grimaced as a piece fell in her face and she tucked it behind her ear with a sticky crisp hand.

"Are those crisps?" Sherlock said after while, desperate to break the awkward silence. Even if it was with a five-year-old.

Lily nodded at him. Still crunching on them contently.

Sherlock nodded back, readjusting his hands below his chin. "Nice crisps? Are those crisps nice?"

Lily just nodded again. Her hair bouncing and her legs kicking against the front of the sofa.

Sherlock looked away from her. "They look like nice crisps." He confirmed it to himself, not really talking to her anymore.

A second later, movement caught his eye and he turned to see Lily shuffling her way off of the sofa. He narrowed his eyes, deducing what she was going to do next. Speak? Toddle off? But once her feet found the floor, instead of toddling off, she toddled over to him. He felt himself recoil a little, lifting his knees up slightly and clutching the arms of the armchair with a slight frown as she approached him. His knees sank again when she stopped in front of his chair. He looked at her, waiting. She stared up at him innocently. Then still without a word between them, she reached into her crisp packet and placed one, solid crisp on his smartly-trousered knee.

Funnily enough, instead of worrying about the grease stain it would leave, Sherlock looked at the crisp then back at Lily again.

Completely in-experienced, he had no idea how to react and instead looked away, choosing to aim his gaze into the kitchen before muttering "...Thank you."

Lily made a noise then, a tiny little hum. Sherlock's head snapped back to look at her in a mixture of confusion and surprise.

"What?" He muttered.

"Daddy said you didn't do that." She spoke. Her voice quiet and gentle.

"Do what? What did he say I didn't do?" Sherlock got ready to feel offended at whatever Lestrade had told his daughter about him.

"The one with curly hair." Lily began, "He doesn't say please and thank you. But be nice to him anyway, because he's in charge." Lily recited what her Daddy had told her.

Sherlock relaxed a little at her words. He found himself almost chuckling at her surprise at him proving her father wrong. And he was in charge? He reminded himself to think better of Lestrade in future. For preaching to his children that Sherlock was in charge.

"And the one with the happy face, he's in charge of the curly haired one." Lily continued and Sherlock's face dropped.

Fucking _Greg._


	3. Chapter 3

_**So**** this one has become a sort of two-part one. They were too short to post separately so I've put them together.**_

_**Oh! And I've no idea what it is in America, but here in England we call it a babygrow. It's like a onesie for a baby haha **_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

Hamish giggled as he was swung side to side. John was balancing him along his lap, his head resting on John's knees and his babygrow-clad feet inches from John's stomach. Hamish was gripping his tiny hands around John's thumbs and John was swinging his knees from side to side, loving the tiny giggles that emanated from the baby as he did.

"Do stop that, John. You'll make him sick." Sherlock commented from his armchair, John's laptop was balanced on the top of his knees as he sat in a crouch like always.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. He's loving it. Just listen to him." John continued and Hamish giggled again, staring happily up at his father with bright blue eyes. "Isn't that right, H? You like it don't you? Yes you do! Sherlock's just being a spoil-sport isn't he?" John tickled Hamish's chin gently. "Yes he is! Yes he is! A big, fat spoil-"

"Must you talk like that?" Sherlock interrupted. "I never knew babies had such sickeningly-admirable talents of reducing a man to talking like he's lost all sense. Really, John. I thought you were a clever man, a doctor. A _military_ doctor." The detective's eyes widened in sarcasm. "Clearly I was mistaken when deducing your capabilities of resisting-"

"Yes. Alright, thank you." John interrupted, slightly offended and definitely annoyed. "I get it."

Sherlock huffed and returned his attention to his laptop.

John watched the man for a moment, stuck his tongue out at him and laughed when Hamish giggled at it. He looked down at his son, realising the baby found it funny, and pointed across the room at Sherlock before sticking his tongue out again. Hamish giggled heartily and John grinned. He put a finger to his lips before pulling the same face again. Hamish laughed this time, a hearty belly laugh that even Sherlock quirked a smile at, eyes still locked on the laptop screen.

John smiled warmly, love for his son beaming through his grin. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he lifted Hamish up to press a kiss to his tiny button nose.

Hamish giggled once before violently bring both hands in sharply to slap John on either side of the face, a wide-mouthed grin still there on his toothless mouth as he did.

This time, Sherlock burst out laughing and had to put the laptop down. John frowned at the baby just inches from his face before his frown transformed into a smile again and he couldn't help but laugh too. He looked over Hamish's shoulder at Sherlock who was clutching his stomach as he laughed, something John had rarely seen him do.

"Hamish...you brilliant child!" Sherlock managed between laughter. He got up off his chair and made his way over to them both, lifting Hamish out of John's hands and resting him on his hip before sticking _his_ tongue out at _John_ instead. Sure enough, it earned the same response from Hamish and the baby giggled at the funny face again.

John waited for Hamish to repeat his actions and shook his head when he didn't.

"Oh yeah, sure. He only slaps me." The doctor rolled his eyes with a smile.

"That's because you talk to him like an idiot, John."

* * *

"John is Papa, I am Daddy, yes Hamish?"

The toddler in his arms nodded as Sherlock awkwardly re-adjusted him on his hip. Hamish's light brown curls bounced on his forehead as his father moved him.

"Sherlock, daddy." Sherlock prompted, hoping his son would repeat him.

John had explained now was the best time to introduce to Hamish that his father's had two names, just as a heterosexual couple would start desperately saying 'Mama' and 'Dada' at their child too. Hamish picking it up early would mean he'd grow up already knowing and accepting it, until he was old enough to question it.

"John, Papa."

"Jawn...Pa-pah!" Hamish exclaimed, lifting his toy tractor in triumph at the word 'pah!' and grinning, wide-mouthed, up at Sherlock.

"Yes, good. John is Papa." Sherlock nodded at his son, feeling his leg grow numb and deciding to gently pace the living room of the flat

.  
"Sherlock, Daddy." The detective tried again.

"Sh...lawk. Dad-dy." Hamish attempted and Sherlock's eyes filled with warmth for his little boy.

"Very good, Hamish. Now, Papa is the blonde-grey one. Daddy is the dark-not grey one, yes?"

Hamish nodded, though Sherlock knew the boy didn't understand a word of what he was saying. He continued nonetheless.

"Papa likes jumpers and jam. Daddy likes suits and science. Yes, Hamish?"

Hamish's eyes were locked on his toy tractor, his chin jutted out and brow furrowed in concentration, but he nodded all the same.

"Papa is short, sometimes stubborn with just a little bit of an annoying habit of being in control. But we look past that, Hamish. You and I. We look past Papa's little faults because what's more important is that he is here with us and he loves us. Doesn't he? And we love him, Hamish. Do you love Papa?"

Hamish looked up at Sherlock then, his toy tractor seemingly momentarily forgotten about. The curly haired toddler nodded once, his eyes bright, before managing; "Love Papa...and love Dad-dy." Hamish then leant up, stretching in Sherlock's arms to bump a kiss clumsily onto Sherlock's lips.

The detective froze.

He watched as Hamish's attention was immediately back on the tractor. He'd pulled off one of the wheels and was smacking it against the windscreen with some force while humming contently.

It was obvious that Hamish had picked up kissing from having seen others do it. Just like his speech was picked up by copying words he heard others say. There'd been a few instances where he called Sherlock 'git' or 'smar-tarse', leading John to only encourage that he learn their real names sooner. Naturally however, Greg Lestrade had found it rather amusing, clapping the small boy and cheering every time he did it, causing Hamish to beam up at the DI and John's fury to grow.

But as Sherlock stood, still holding his son in his arms, watching him destroy one of his toys, he chuckled too. John had bought him that tractor.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, the doctor in question was stood just inside the kitchen doorway. And had been for a while, long enough to see the whole ordeal of teaching Hamish to learn their names. He'd beamed with pride for both Sherlock and his son, glowered in annoyance when Sherlock had mentioned him to have 'annoying habits' and almost welled up when Hamish had kissed his father so innocently.

Sherlock continued to bounce Hamish gently, slowly becoming accustomed to working this young new life around his busy work schedule.

John watched from the kitchen, silently happy that Sherlock had managed to settle a little with Hamish around.

God forbid the next time he had a particularly riveting case, mind you.


	4. Chapter 4

The interrogation room was still. The accused was sat on one side of the table, Sherlock the other. His hands were propped beneath his nose, palms together. Pale eyes set beneath a tight frown, the middle finger of his right hand tapped impatiently against his left.

Lestrade and John, as well as two other officers, watched from the other side a one-way mirror. John's jaw tightened as he watched Sherlock. He understood this was important for the case, but it meant they'd had to leave Hamish with Mrs Hudson and John was certain there was only so much of the miniature Sherlock that woman could handle. The impatient, annoying habits of the 7-year-old consulting detective but in an_ actual_ 7-year-old.

Sucking in a breath, the detective sat back in his chair, dropping his hands to his lap.

"I'm disappointed in you, Laurence." Sherlock lifted a pale finger and pointed it at his own face. "This is my disappointed face."

John rolled his eyes. The detective was clearly in parent mode, something he'd quickly picked up from John and seemed to find hard to let go off when needed.

"Your intransigence frustrates me."

And parent mode was gone.

"You either know where she is or you don't!" He shouted, standing suddenly straight and towering over the accused who sat there with a face like a dead man, staring straight ahead, almost through Sherlock's torso.

John's fist clenched. Hamish would probably be convincing Mrs Hudson that throwing perfectly good iced buns into the skip outside would be the perfect of testing their biodegradability. He nudged Lestrade's arm with his elbow and the DI nodded at him before heading towards the door into the interrogation room.

"Sherlock." Lestrade spoke, breaking the tensionable silence that followed Sherlock's outburst. "A word?"

Sherlock's demeanour stiffened with annoyance and he swept past Laurence without a word, stepping outside to join Lestrade and John.

"Look, I'm agreeing to let you in there." Lestrade began but Sherlock interrupted him with a groan and a roll of his eyes, he turned to re-enter the room but the DI caught his arm to turn him back. "But it doesn't mean my head's not on the chopping block." He spoke quietly but sternly, hoping it would send Sherlock the warning he needed. He paused, his voice calming a little. "Just get in there, get what you need, get out again. Got it?"

He waited for Sherlock to nod before letting his arm go again.

Just before the detective could disappear back into the room with Laurence, John spoke up.

"Oh, and lay off the parenting act? Combine it with smart-arse and we've no idea what you'll get. Not something I'd like to witness, today." John crossed his arms and shot Sherlock a warning look. Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again and flounced back into the room.

"Nothing. Nothing!" Sherlock huffed and fell back onto the sofa, crossing his arms over his eyes. "Not a word. You'd think a man of his….intelligence-"

"Or lack thereof." John added.

"-would just blurt it out under pressure! He was practically a cardboard cut-out of a man, John!" Sherlock groaned loudly and flopped over onto his side, facing the back of the sofa. "Why must I be plagued with such _dull_ criminals, John? For once I'd like a triple murder suicide with no evident leads." Sherlock shot up, now sitting profile to John, his hands twitching with anticipation. "Perhaps with a startlingly confusing canine influence and a currency from somewhere abroad." He paused, groaned again and flopped back onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Not a man whose mouth is zipped shut like some disused puppet!"

"Dad!" Hamish came bounding into the room and landed on top of the doctor with a thud and an 'oof!' from John.

"Hey, matey. Has Mrs Hudson kept you nice and busy?" He smiled, reaching to wipe some icing sugar from Hamish's cheekbone.

"Yeah, we made scones with flour but I wanted icing sugar on mine. And then we put them on a plate with a little sign and she said she'll put them out in the shop tomorrow and tell me who buys one." Hamish rambled on and John watched with fond amusement. There was flour in Hamish's hair making patches of his dark curls turn a light grey. His blue eyes shone with delight as he retold the story of his day to his father.

John glanced over at Sherlock to find him still lying on his back, his eyes were closed but his hands were at his sides. John remembered from experience that this meant he was listening, not thinking.

"Come on then, H. Let's go and get all this washed off." John moved Hamish so he could stand up and began walking towards the bathroom.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried from the sofa and was up and over to them in seconds. He took Hamish's hand out of John's and flashed his husband a short smile. "I'll do it. Gives him time to talk to me about his day too."

John didn't want to mention that he knew Sherlock had been listening to Hamish's story already, neither did he want to point out that bathing Hamish would just act as a distraction from the case. Because maybe that was why Sherlock had rushed over so eagerly, silently begging John for a distraction. It did seem like an aggravating case. John smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, go for it. I'll start dinner then?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he was already walking Hamish to the bathroom.

John laughed lightly to himself as he heard Hamish start up his story again. Their voices faded as they disappeared into the bathroom and the door was closed.

"-and she put them on a plate-"

"Mmm?"

"-and she's gonna tell me who buys one, Dad-"

"Oh, really? That's nice of her then. Close your eyes, Hamish."

John chuckled at the conversation between his husband and his son. Clearly Sherlock was trying to get Hamish clean but the boy was too distracted by his own story.

"-so that I can go in and see them getting sold maybe-"

"Mmhm. Hold your hands out."

"-that is if you don't mind."

"Now rub that on your belly and shoulders, good boy-… What do you mean if I don't mind?"

John frowned now, pouring pasta into a pan but listening intently.

"Well, if you're busy again tomorrow then Mrs Hudson says I can stay with her again. But if you're not busy, and you don't mind, can I stay with her anyway?" Hamish asked.

John waited patiently for Sherlock's answer. Truly not knowing what it was going to be.

"If that's what you want to do, Hamish then that's fine. I'm sure Mrs Hudson won't mind."

Sherlock heard John clear his throat in the kitchen. A subtle message of _'don't decide things for other people, Sherlock.' _But the detective smiled, watching his son splash water up the wall to see how high he could get it. John was clearly assuming Mrs Hudson wouldn't want to spend another day looking after their son, because he was so very nearly the miniature version of himself. But what John had forgotten was, yes, Hamish had picked up a lot of traits from himself, his intellect, curiosity, quick wit, sharp mind and tongue. But he'd also picked up many from John too, his manners, caring nature, ability to realise when something he's said has offended. So the detective knew Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind in the slightest if Hamish were to stay with her for the second day in a row.

And of that he was certain.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally, John was all for Sherlock letting Hamish watch his experiments. As long as Sherlock abided by the list of rules John had set. The list of rules that were written in red and stuck to the fridge.

**He must not be allowed to touch anything harmful. **

**He must not be invited to 'hold this' under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.**

**He must not be allowed to decide what gets added 'for extra fun'.**

**He must stay on the opposite side of the kitchen island at all times. **

**The following roles are NEVER ALLOWED:  
- Acid chooser**

**- Substance shaker/stirrer/mixer**

**- Test subject **

**- NEVER TEST SUBJECT**

**- EVER **

**Never let him out of your sight (that goes for Hamish too)**

**Never show him where anything harmful is kept. **

**Disallow him to talk at great length (also applies for you, Sherlock)**

It wasn't a drastically outlandish list. But Sherlock still saw fit to criticise John's views of him as a parent.

'_Do you really think I could be so irresponsible, John? Really?"_

To which John's reply was simply,

"_Yes."_

Sherlock had clenched his jaw and not spoken to John for a day after that. At first John had felt guilty, perhaps his list had been a bit offensive towards Sherlock. But it didn't mean the list was any less meaningful. Every single thing on it was capable of happening and every single thing on it John didn't want happening. Call him the Mother of the family, but it was true.

So naturally, especially after Sherlock had sworn blind that he was much more capable than John made him out to be, when John entered the flat one evening after a late shift at work to find Hamish in the kitchen, stood on a stool, his hand being held under the tap by Sherlock, the doctor wasn't impressed in the slightest.

"What the bloody hell has happened?" John asked, quickly dropping his keys onto the worktop and rounding the counter to reach them. Sherlock had the sleeves of his purple shirt rolled up to his elbows and a gentle hold on Hamish's right wrist, guiding his hand under the flow of water from the tap. The detective turned to John, his dark curls falling against his forehead, and smiled.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, John. Just a minor Bunsen burn. It's all being taken care of." Sherlock turned back to his son, avoiding the scowl from John that ended up hitting his back instead of his eyes.

"Sherlock. _Please_ don't tell me you burned our son." John was seething, breathing through his teeth and trying hard to remain calm but his fists were clenching and unclenching.

Sherlock turned again to face John, still holding Hamish's wrist. "Okay." He paused before flashing a brief smile and turning back once again.

"_Sherlock_-"

"I'm fine, Dad! It's fine!" Hamish cut John off, trying to protect his father.

"See? He's fine." Sherlock whispered reassuringly and John grit his teeth, shifting his stance in annoyance.

"Let me have a look." John stepped over to them both and nudged Sherlock out of the way. He turned the tap off and grabbed Hamish's wrist gently to lift it into the light. "Where's the burn?" He asked after a moment's confusion.

John frowned at his son's perfectly-fine arm for a second before looking up at him in question. Hamish was grinning.

Sherlock's baritone laughter suddenly filled the small kitchen, soon joined by Hamish higher giggling. The boy took his wrist out of John's grasp so he could reach across and high-five his father.

John felt like shouting.

"See?" Sherlock was suddenly behind him. "I'm better at this parenting lark than you think, John." He bent his head to press an affectionate kiss to John's cheek and Hamish wrinkled his nose.

"Yuck." He shielded his eyes and John even let out a light laugh.

"Alright, Lord Laughs-A-Lot. Go and get changed for bed." The doctor pointed towards the door.

Hamish hopped down from the stool, still laughing, and bounded out of the room.

"You really don't have much faith in me, do you?" Sherlock asked after a moment's silence.

John turned to look at the dark-haired man and lifted a hand to cradle his face. "It's not that. It's just… I know what you're like when you get excited about something. You can get a bit… eccentric and… bouncy. And even though your deductions manage to stay as sharp as they ever are, your… decisions can become somewhat… stupid."

Sherlock pursed his lips with a frown. "Give me an example."

"Oh, I don't know – running out in front of a bus?" John exclaimed.

Sherlock face fell. "I see. And this makes you worry for the welfare of our son when he's in my care, is that it?"

John sighed and stroked his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. "Only a little bit. But I trust you. And if you say you can control your… eccentricity when looking after Hamish then… you can." John smiled and Sherlock returned it half-heartedly.

"Oi. Don't go sulky on me now, we were having a laugh a minute ago weren't we?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead he bent his head to press a chaste kiss to John's lips.

"Ugh, I'll come back later." Hamish spoke from the doorway.

Both men turned to look at him and John frowned.

"Hey, I thought I told you to get ready for bed? Hmm?" He lightly scolded.

"Yeah, but I just came to ask Father a question first." Hamish replied and looked at Sherlock.

"Go on then, but quickly." John gave in with a sigh.

"When you said _'don't get anything in that cut'_, you know the one on my finger from the scalpel, does toothpaste count?" Hamish asked innocently and silence fell in the kitchen.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he could feel John's glare on him without having to turn and look.

"Err…yes. Toothpaste counts, Hamish." Sherlock replied awkwardly. "Just…go and get your pyjamas on and I'll come and help."

"No, you won't." John stopped the detective from walking towards the door and Sherlock smiled apologetically at Hamish.

Hamish noticed the tension between his fathers and thought it best to make himself scarce.

"Scalpel?" John asked.

"Well it was an accident, he leant across to point at something and-"

"Scalpel." John repeated but it was now a statement.

Sherlock stayed silent.

"You let our son near you, with a scalpel."

"Well _he _didn't have the scalpel. _I _did so-"

"That's bloody worse, Sherlock!"

The detective breathed in deeply and raised his chin. "If you're just going to curse, John. This conversation will get nowhere."

John shook his head and quirked a disbelieving smile. "You know, sometimes…sometimes you can just _so easily…_"

"Father?" Hamish called from his bedroom and Sherlock leapt at this opportunity.

"Yes, Hamish! Coming!" The detective darted out of the kitchen after flashing a grin at his husband.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Sherlock's Baby Day_**

* * *

The sun peaked bleakly from between the curtains, casting a line of light across Sherlock's right eye.  
He stirred, snuffling further into his pillow. But finding that it didn't bring nearly half as much comfort as he was searching for, he instead scooted forward and fit himself snugly into the Sherlock-shaped space against John's back. Successfully moving himself out of the sunlight streak and back into comfortable darkness, Sherlock found that John's nape was exceedingly better than his pillow; and inhaled a content breath of John's scent.  
"Sh'lock? You up?" John sleep-slirred and craned his neck to try and look at the detective.  
"Ssh. M'not." Was Sherlock's reply and he nuzzled his nose further into John's skin, his arm snaking it's way over the doctor's waist and pulling him back against his chest.  
John smiled fondly and lay his head back onto the pillow, hooking his right foot around Sherlock's right ankle and pulling it to slot between his own. His hand found Sherlock's and he entwined their fingers, nearly drifting back into warm slumber once again.  
When Hamish let out a shriek.  
Both men shared a united sigh, a few seconds where they willed the other one to get up in their place.  
Sherlock unhooked himself from John and rolled onto his back. John took this as a sign that, strangely and completely a work of miracle, Sherlock had decided to sort the baby out this morning.  
It was only when, after a few seconds of waiting and realising he he'd neither felt nor heard the detective get out of bed (and Hamish's cries went up a few decibels) that John turned over and saw Sherlock laying flat on his back, pillow over his face and arms thrown crossed over the pillow.  
"I'll bloody get up then." John sighed, sitting up and throwing the duvet off of him.  
"Wonderful suggestion, John." Sherlock mumbled from beneath cotton and feathers.  
John rolled his eyes as he slipped on his slippers and Hamish's wails grew more desperate. "Alright, H! Ssh, ssh, ssh. I'm coming, Daddy's coming."  
Sherlock was glad for the pillow covering his face, otherwise it meant there was a chance John would've witnessed the grin that suddenly spread there.  
"Okay, matey. It's alright." Sherlock heard John lift Hamish out of the crib in the corner of the room. "There. See?" John hushed as Hamish's cries died down to occasional murmurs of discontent and shakey breaths. "See? All better." The doctor let Hamish hook his fingers around his thumb and bounced him gently on his hip. Hamish suddenly blinked and, with a physical jolt of his head, looked straight into John's eyes as though he'd only just realised his Daddy was there. "Good morning!" John chuckled in a voice far too high-pitched. Sherlock grunted and rolled his eyes beneath closed lids.  
"Guess what, H? Today is a special day." John continued as he walked Hamish over to the window and pulled the curtains open with the hand that his son's was still attached to. Sherlock groaned.  
"Because..." John smirked at Sherlock's strop and moved over to sit on the edge of Sherlock's side of the bed, gripping Hamish by the sides and dangling him over Sherlock's pillow-covered face. "You get to spend the entire day with this beautiful lump of life!" John chuckled and then let out a bark of laughter when Hamish giggled in response and thumped his hand down onto the pillow violently.  
Sherlock, obviously confused as to why he'd just been thumped, pulled the pillow off of himself with a frown. Only to come face to face with his bright-eyed baby boy.  
Who then proceeded to thump him directly _on_ the face.  
John laughed harder and decided to lift Hamish up and out the way. Extending the baby at arms length above his head, John grinned up as Hamish giggled down, now sucking a hand into his mouth, his dark hair flopping as John wiggled him side to side.  
"Is that today?" Sherlock sat up and ran a hand up his forehead and into his sleep-fluffened curls.  
"Yep! One glorious, chock-a-block day at the surgery for me, which means you get to look after our son, for the entire day." John was talking to Sherlock but still smiling at his son who was studying the tips of his own fingers with great interest.  
"Fa!" He suddenly blurted, shoving his hand into John's face as though it was the answer to an urgent question no one had asked. "Fafa!"  
John chuckled and turned back to Sherlock.  
"Look, I know it's not necessarily going to be your best day ever. But I can't ask Mrs Hudson again, and you are his father-."  
"Adopted." Sherlock interrupted as he rose from the bed and shrugged on his blue, silk dressing gown.  
John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock quirked both.  
"Not good?"  
"Hmm." Was all John gave as an answer and Sherlock knew he'd over-stepped the 'not good' mark.

* * *

John had washed, dressed, dressed Hamish, eaten breakfast, fed Hamish his breakfast and packed his doctor's case for the day as well as remembered to pick up the Patients Folder from the kitchen worktop all in the time it took Sherlock to tame his mess of curls and flick on the kettle (with much grumbling). The doctor lifted the baby from his highchair and approached his husband, tickling Hamish under the chin as he did.  
"Just...promise me you won't do anything stupid?" John winced in memory as he placed Hamish in Sherlock's arms.  
"Stupidity is not..." Sherlock paused to adjust his son comfortably on his hip before looking back up at John again, "...one of my traits, John."  
John gave him a 'we both know you're lying' look before leaning forward to press a kiss to Hamish's head. "Behave." He said then kissed Sherlock's lips and left the room, calling back as he did, "That goes for you too, Hamish!"

* * *

**Managing? - JW**

**Round about. - SH**

**I'm on my way back for lunch. Sarah took on four of my patients so I could come home and check on you. I'll be there in 10. - JW**

John walked into the flat ten minutes later, dropping his keys on the table and shredding his coat, to find Sherlock on the sofa, Hamish on his lap and laptop balancing on his knees. One arm was clicking away at the mousepad while the other was wrapped around Hamish's belly, keeping him safely pinned to his torso. John wondered whether his bouncing knee, nicely keeping Hamish entertained as he bobbed up and down, was a conscious action on Sherlock's part.  
The doctor drifted to see what the screen entailed and his sudden frown caused him physical pain in his forehead.  
"What?" Was all he managed.  
"Keyhole heart surgery. On a baby." Was Sherlock's monotone reply.  
"Yes I knew that." John snapped and waved a finger in the direction of the screen. "Look, I know that that's only shapes and movement to him but I can't help but worry that those type of videos will have a lasting impression."

"I hope so. He's one of the best." Sherlock nodded at the screen, referring to the surgeon fondly. He then looked down at Hamish who was already looking up at him. "Concentrate."

John rolled his eyes and contemplated whipping the baby right out of Sherlock's lap and insisting he took Hamish back to work with him.

"Right," he sighed, giving in and heading for the kitchen.

* * *

After John'd eaten, fought with Sherlock about eating and tried helplessly to stop Hamish mashing his lunch into his hair, he wiped his hands on a tea towel and sighed.  
"Right, I've got half an hour before I need to be back in my office. I'm going to take a shower." He threw the towel at Sherlock who'd just entered the kitchen from his bedroom. "Wipe his mouth for me." He nodded at Hamish and chuckled at Sherlock's startled expression as the tea towel hung off his shoulder.  
As he made his way past Hamish to the bathroom, he sniffed and grimaced. "Oh! Smells like he could do with a nappy change too!" He bopped Hamish on the nose and turned to press a quick kiss to Sherlock's lips before disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door behind him.  
"Fafa!" Hamish squealed in delight, bending his head back to look up at Sherlock, and bounced up and down in his seat, kicking his legs violently against the plastic legs of his highchair.  
"Okay...little man." Sherlock attempted taking on John's 'Hamish' tone. "Let's get this muck off of you." He began gently wiping at Hamish's mouth with a clean part of the tea towel. Hamish hummed contently and jutted his chin forward, allowing his father more access to his messy mouth. Sherlock quirked the corner of his own mouth up in an impressed smile. Hamish had obviously learnt to do this whenever someone cleaned his face and the detective couldn't help the pride that washed over him at how quickly his son had learned this habit. "Good boy." He smiled warmly at his son and something in the young boy's eyes twinkled happily.

* * *

"Right. I'm off again then." Just ten minutes later, John had showered and changed his shirt and tie.  
He walked back into the kitchen, bringing with him the scent of shower gel and aftershave, though Sherlock could still smell John's own scent through all that. Well, he would have, had he not had his face hovering over his son's dirty nappy at the time.  
John blinked, pursed his lips and and pointed a confused finger at Hamish. "Kitchen table?"  
"Hmm, more convenient than the other one..." Sherlock mumbled, deep in concentration, a tight frown on his forehead.  
"By the other one, you mean the _changing_ table?"  
"M'yes." Sherlock reached blindly for the packet of baby wipes beside Hamish's content form.  
"It's funny." John was still stood exactly where he'd stopped, face still creased in confusion.  
"What is?" Sherlock grasped the wipe and attempted cleaning Hamish's bottom but huffing when the baby only laid back down into his own muck from the dirty nappy.  
"Normally I'd be concerned for our welfare, what with changing a pooey nappy on the kitchen table. But, seeing as we do nothing on the kitchen table that the kitchen table is actually implied to be used for...I'm actually concerned for the welfare of our son instead." John finally stepped over to help, lifting Hamish's legs by the ankles with one hand. "Like this. Hold his legs up," he took the wipe off of Sherlock, "wipe him clean, keep holding them up, then take out the dirty nappy from underneath and replace it with the clean one." John lowered Hamish's chubby legs down onto the clean nappy, passed the dirty wipe to Sherlock (who made no resist to grimacing vividly) and carefully did it up, tickling Hamish's feet gently once he was done.  
"There! Clean botty!" John laughed and bopped Hamish on the nose who let out a bright belly-laugh.  
"Botty?" Sherlock scoffed.  
John just looked at him, cocking an eyebrow.  
"Shut up." He leant forward and kissed Sherlock quickly. "Right, _now_ I'm off again. Remember to put him back in his babygrow."  
"Yes, dear." Sherlock rolled his eyes but smirked when Hamish made a cooing sound as he watched John leave the room.

* * *

"Good to see you back, John. Everything okay at home?" Sarah smiled from behind the front desk as she sorted out some papers.  
"Yeah, not as bad as I'd envisioned. Apart from introducing our son to keyhole surgery via YouTube."  
"Keyhole surgery?" Sarah laughed lightly.  
"Yeah, well. I'd say it's an odd choice of entertainment...but he's Sherlock." John flicked his eyebrows up before tapping his fingers on the top of the front desk. "Mrs Dales next?"  
"Yep, she's already here actually." Sarah nodded to an old lady, short and thin with hair so white it was almost blue. The lady waved a shakey hand to John and gave him an all-dentures smile.  
"Excellent, right I'll get started then." John returned the smile. "If you'd like to come with me, Mrs Dales?"

* * *

"So I'm already on tablets for my gastro situation but my son told me I needed to come back in?"  
"Only for a repeat prescription, Mrs Dales. And for me to make sure the tablets are doing their job." John's doctor tone was light and caring but professional and he found it got him respect from his patients. Well, most of them. Mrs Dales, luckily, was one who he did. He flashed her a brief smile before returning his attention back to his computer to assess he medical files.  
"Oh, what a little cutie..." The old lady suddenly cooed and John looked over to find her tapping on the glass of a photoframe on his desk. "Is he yours?"  
"Err, yeah. Yeah he is. Hamish." John smiled with pride. The photo wasn't taken that long ago and clearly showed Hamish's bright eyes and one of his rare, open mouthed grins. Almost completely toothless too; apart from two tiny teeth at the bottom.  
"Aww, he's a proper little beauty. Bet he keeps you awake doesn't he? Bet Mummy never sleeps!" She laughed lightly, still looking at Hamish's photo.  
John chuckled at just how true that sentence was. Sherlock never really slept, but it wasn't because of Hamish.  
"Something like that, yeah." He shook his head with a smile and returned to the computer screen.

* * *

"Three blind mice! See how they run! They all run after the farmers wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife! Did you ever see such a thing in your life as three blind mice!"  
When John had first asked Sherlock about having a day with Hamish, Sherlock had never envisioned having to attend this.  
"Say cheese!"  
**Click**.  
"Ow."  
"Hehhhh!"  
On the bright side, Hamish seemed to be enjoying it, sat happily in between Sherlock's legs, just like every other baby with every other Mother.  
Yes, Sherlock was the only father present. Which made it all so much bloody better.  
The lady running the Baby Cult was prancing around in the middle of the circle, her frizzy red hair bouncing and her green-rimmed glasses swinging on their chain around her neck. She'd just finished taking photos of everyone and already Sherlock was growing annoyed with her chirpy personality.  
"Right then, kiddies and mummies!" She looked at Sherlock with a sickeningly patronising smile and added "and daddy." Sherlock flashed a fake smile and subconsciously pulled Hamish closer to him.  
"It's time for puppets!" She suddenly dived into a small box and produced two 'puppets', pulling one onto her hand and leaving one on the floor beside the box.  
"This is Mr StripeyToes everybody! Say hello!"  
Sherlock watched as all the mothers lifted their babies wrists and made a waving motion for them. He looked down at Hamish in time to see his baby lift his own arm and wave it clumsily up and down on his own. The detective smirked at how clever his little boy was compared to the rest of the babies.  
"Let's all say hello to Mr StripeyToes shall we?" The frizzy lady began waving the yellow and blue-striped garment at each of the babies separately as she made her way round the circle. It looked old and slightly worn and had two googley eyes stuck haphazardly to its 'face'.  
"Hello, little Hamish!"  
Sherlock immediately recoiled, pulling Hamish with him when Frizzy Lady waved the puppet at his son.  
"When was that sock last washed?" He frowned at it and kept a protective arm in-between it and his baby.  
"Don't be silly! This isn't a sock! It's Mr StripeyToes!" Frizzy Lady attempted to wave it at Hamish again and Sherlock had had enough.  
"Right." He lifted Hamish under the arms and stood up, shifting him onto his hip and beginning to fiddle with his pushchair.  
"What? You can't go yet! We were just starting to enjoy ourselves!" Frizzy Lady protested, still knelt on the floor with the blasted sock on her left hand.  
"No." Sherlock adjusted the pushchair so he could lower Hamish in. "No we weren't."  
And that was all he said before marching out of the building.

* * *

'This is you, and this is Daddy." John pointed to the photo Justine from the playgroup had taken. She'd tucked it in the letterbox to 221B and John had found it on his way in from work. "Now Hamish, just because Daddy isn't smiling doesn't mean he's not enjoying himself."  
"What on earth leads you to believe that?" Sherlock entered from the kitchen, wiping something off of his shirt sleeves. "Egg yolk." He said when John gave him a look.  
The doctor was currently sat in his armchair with Hamish all ready for bed and tucked into the corner of his lap. He was sucking on a dummy and his favourite toy, a small blue puppy no bigger than John's hand, sat crooked in his lap.  
"Come on, you must have enjoyed some part of today, surely! A whole day with your bright-eyed little son and the world in which he lives."  
"Riveting." Sherlock walked past the armchair to grab his laptop from the desk before making his way to the sofa.  
John paused, watching his husband shift himself about to get comfortable. "Seriously. There was no part of today that interested you in the slightest?"  
"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock began clicking.  
"Go on then, what did you enjoy?"  
"The remarkable rate at which our child is picking up habits and learning things all of his own accord. Not to mention already putting them into practice."  
John looked down at Hamish who was leaning forward and making grabby motions for the play mat on the floor. He gently lowered him down and Hamish lunged for a cardboard baby book, discarding his blue puppy as it tumbled out of his lap.  
"Already? Wow, that's good." John watched fondly. "Like what, then?"  
"Oh just small movements, tilting his head forward when someone cleans it was the first one I noticed. It shows that with enough repeat of the action, he has picked it up and will do it every time someone approaches his face with a wipe now." Sherlock began typing into a Word document. "Another is the fact that he can already wave of his own accord."  
"He can already wave? Self muscle-stimulation at 5 months old? Normally it's around 7, he is quick. Are you sure he's not part you?" John exclaimed then quickly darted to stop Hamish toppling backwards, earning a smile from Sherlock.  
"Waving seems simple for him. He's already started teething and pronouncing some consonants. A baby his age should be responding to small object movement like this." Sherlock waved his hand above his head from across the room and it must have caught Hamish's eye because the baby's head jolted upright and his eyes locked onto his father's hand. "See? He should also just be starting to respond to his own name too." Sherlock nodded at John and John took the hint.  
"Hamish!" He called lightly and the baby's head turned to John instead and he let out a content hum through an open-mouthed grin. John couldn't help but grin back.  
"And that too. He should also be starting to find odd things funny, like certain noises and facial expressions. Not to mention starting to show love and affection through his own actions and noises too." Sherlock continued and reel off various milestones that Hamish should be reaching, then following those with ones he's reaching early. "For a baby his age and size, he is developing remarkably quickly." The detective continued to type and left John to smile with greater fondness at his son as he managed to keep himself sat upright and bashed his hand against the pages of his book.  
Of course, as a doctor, John knew all of that already. But hearing it come so fondly from Sherlock's mouth was enough to make John keep quiet and pretend he was learning something new.

* * *

"When you were talking about development?" John groaned and shouted above the noise.  
"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock grumbled from beneath his pillow, hands pinning it down either side of his head.  
"You mentioned teething?"  
"Yes!"  
"And how it was a good thing?"  
"Yes, though now I'm not too sure!"  
Both men continued to grumble and groan as Hamish's cries from the corner grew louder and louder.  
"Poor sod must be in so much pain!" John shouted. "I've tried giving him the teething ring twice and he just throws it onto the floor!"  
"Well do _something_, John!"  
"How about you come up with an idea, bright-spark!"  
"I suggested the last fourty ideas, John! I think that makes it your turn!"  
John groaned louder and threw the covers off of himself, stalking over to the crib and lifting Hamish out.  
"Alright, matey. Sssh." Hamish began to quieten as John stroked his reddening cheeks with his knuckles and winced at how hot they were to touch. "He's really teething now."  
"Hmm, I suspected as such." Sherlock mumbled, rolling his eyes. "If the racket was anything to go by."  
John tried to lower Hamish back down again but the baby boy's cries only started up louder and more desperate.  
"Oh god! Make it stop!" Sherlock moaned. "I swear, I will march straight up those stairs and into your old room! No amount of dust mites and cardboard boxes will stop me."  
"Wait! Why don't you play to him?" John lit up with an idea.  
"Play? I'm not in the mood for more unhygienic foot material, John." Sherlock rolled onto his front and buried his entire face into his pillow.  
"What? I meant your violin. Why don't you play him that one you wrote the other week? I like that one." John sat back down onto the bed and lifted one of the dark curls out of the way so he could see Sherlock's eyes.  
There was a moment of silence.  
"Fine."

* * *

Sherlock was completely lost in the music. So much so this he obviously didn't realise when Hamish had fallen asleep because his melodic notes continued to dance across the room regardless.  
John could tell the piece was coming to an end and wanted to try and get to sleep before it did but he couldn't take his eyes off of his husband.  
Sherlock's stiff demeanour was completely melted away and his eyes were closed as he swayed about the room. His fingers danced along the strings and his hand, wrapped lightly and only by the fingertips, around the bow was gentle and soothing in its movements.  
As the final note died away, John looked over to check Hamish was still asleep. He was, thank god, and John found himself releasing a breath of relief.  
"Wow...Your idea actually worked." Sherlock whispered as he set his violin down and climbed back into bed.  
"Of course it did, what gave you doubt?" John smirked and scooted over to settle against Sherlock's chest.  
"Sorry, I must have been influenced by the last 50 ideas you gave that went so horribly wrong." Sherlock snickered as he began to run his fingers lazily through John's short hair.  
"Err, I think you'll find it was you," John poked him in the chest, "that gave those last fifty ideas, mister."  
Sherlock chuckled and said nothing.  
"Well, thank bloody god for that." John sighed into the room and looked over at the sleeping Hamish then at the clock. "Well done, love. If I weren't so monumentally tired I'd thank you properly."  
"Properly?" Sherlock's voice rose as his ears pricked at the new idea.  
"Ssh! Keep your voice down!" John whispered harshly and dug his fingers into Sherlock's sides. "Yes, properly."  
There was a pause where John could have actually heard Sherlock's brain whirring.  
"I've got some caffeine tablets in the cupboard, enough to wake up a horse."  
"No, Sherlock. I'll have to thank you tomorrow, there's no way I'm drugging myself awake just to shag you."  
"Just? You make it sound like an anti-climax, John. Something, from my own experience and evidence, I can safely announce is entirely incorrect. If your noises are anything to go by-"  
"Yeah, alright. Thank you. Bedtime now, you ridiculously horny genius." John interrupted him with a light laugh and shifted so his arm was thrown across Sherlock's stomach.  
"You know that will only increase said adjectives, John." Sherlock replied huskily as his foot found John's leg and he dragged it between his own, just like John had that morning.  
"Sleep! Now!" John lifted his head and gave Sherlock the sternest tone he could while still whispering.  
Sherlock pouted, sticking out his bottom lip like a child and John leant up to grab it with his teeth.  
"I said tomorrow." John growled against his husband's lip and released it to press a kiss to where he'd bitten. "Night, night, Sherlock."  
"Hmph." Was all Sherlock gave as a reply and John chuckled lightly.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sorry? _Punched_? No he would never-...Oh. Oh, of course. Yes. Both of us? Yeah, okay. We'll be over as soon as we can. Thank you, Mr Jacobs."

John stabbed his phone to hang up and shoved it into his back jeans pocket, running a hand through his hair as he did. He stalked to grab his and Sherlock's coats and threw the aformentioned at the latter who was lying on the sofa, feet propped against the wall, head dangling over the edge and hair falling almost long enough to touch the floor. His hands were propped beneath his chin and his eyes were closed.

The coat sailed through the air and landed straight on top of the detective, covering him mid-waist to head in black.

"What is it?" Sherlock's voice came muffled from beneath the material but John wasn't in the mood to find it even the slightest bit funny.

"It's Hamish. He's been in a fight."

Sherlock swizzelled round to right himself and ignored the coat.

"Good. Show's character." He sniffed and leant his head back to delve back into his Mind Palace again but John stopped him.

"No. He's been _punched_, Sherlock. He was _in _a fight." John's fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Sherlock gaped up at John, both of them sharing the same thought.

* * *

"Well, I'm not one to say 'I told you so'-"

"Yes, you bloody are-"

"But I _told_ you we shouldn't have sent him to public school, John." Sherlock shrugged his coat further around his shoulders before reaching up to hail a cab. "I _said _to you, I made it _very _clear, between us we would have _more_ than enough capability to teach him the skills he'd require for life."

The cab pulled up and Sherlock pulled the door open.

"Well, we can sort that out later, Sherlock. For now I'd just like to make sure-" A hand suddenly against John's chest stopped the doctor from bending to get into the cab.

Sherlock said nothing, just gave the man a knowing look. Realisation and annoyance reached John's face at the same moment.

The detective nodded, now sending John a sympathetic, thankful flash of a smile before ducking into the cab and closing the door behind him.

John waited a moment, contemplating why the pair of them showing up together would actually have any further affect on Hamish's problem, before sucking a breath and hailing the next cab he saw.

* * *

"As you can imagine, these things are often out of our control." The headmaster, Mr Jacobs, lead Sherlock and John to his office, showing them three chairs set up in front of his desk before seating himself behind it. "Only the aftermath we can contain."

"Well you could put more effort into your systems of avoiding the whole act of fighting so that-"

"Sherlock." John noticed his husband's tone and decided to step in and change the subject. "Mr Jacobs, will Hamish be joining us? It's just that I am a doctor so I could help if-"

"Stupid, John. Three chairs. Of course he's joining us." Sherlock muttered, somewhat offended at being cut off a few moments ago.

Mr Jacobs looked between them for a moment before answering John's question. "Yes, Dr Watson, I've just sent Mary down to fetch him from the nurse. He should be here shortly."

"And the seriousness of his injuries?" John had subconcsiously taken on a formal tone and Sherlock deduced it was the one he often used at work. The detective wanted to roll his eyes, scoff even, but found himself smirking with impress instead.

"I am to believe the older boy caught his cheek and possibly his eyebrow. A witness said he got a good few punches in before Hamish started fighting back, however-"

"_Older boy_?"

"_Fighting back_?"

John and Sherlock both spoke at the same time and looked at each other.

Mr Jacobs looked momentarily confused before blinking and shaking his head. "Err, yes. The boy was the year above Hamish. And, yes, Hamish managed to swing a few of his own punches. I'm sure you understand that it will mean he stays in isolation until we are sure it won't happen again? It could only take a day or so, but just so that you understand our causes for-"

"No need for isolation, Mr Jacobs." Sherlock interrupted coldly. John looked at him in surprised and he suddenly felt a rush of sympathy. It seemed the mention of isolation had struck a chord of pain in Sherlock and his deducing meanour was sharper and as evident as ever. "We will be removing Hamish from your school as of today. He will be homeschooled from now on."

John could tell he wasn't going to win this argument even before he started it. He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, fixing his gaze on the wall behind Mr Jacobs's head.

"Mr Holmes, I'm sure we can make sure Hamish isn't a subject-"

"Of bullying, Mr Jacobs." Sherlock interrupted yet again. "Hamish has clearly been targeted by a boy who believes him to be immediately inferior to him, despite Hamish's obvious intellectual advantage. The reason for this being that he has two father's."

John bit the inside of his cheek.

"Having gay parents can cause other children to feel awkard around a child can't it, Mr Jacobs?" Sherlock continued, leaning forward on the desk and propping his hands beneath his chin. "You would understand that of course, your lack of uneasiness while we've been here, despite the fact that your profession in a Catholic primary school tells you to be nothing but 'uneasy', shows me that you are, in fact, perfectly comfortable with this situation." Sherlock gestured between John and himself. "Why?" He nodded to a photoframe on the windowsill behind the headmaster. "Two mothers."

Mr Jacobs held the expression of a startled goldfish.

"Sir, I've got Hamish Watson-Holmes here for you." A female voice spoke from behind John and Sherlock and they turned to see a blonde school secretary, her hand on the shoulder of a very annoyed looking boy.

"Hamish." John finally spoke and stood up to get a better look at his son's injuries.

"The nurse cleaned him up well, he was bleeding from his eyebrow and had a graze on his cheek. Looks like that eye might swell up a bit yet, too." Mary smiled at the doctor causing Sherlock to scowl, before nodding to Mr Jacobs.

"Thank you, Mary." The headmaster shook himself out of his shocked state to dismiss the secretary from his office.

"Dad, I'm fine. I'm ok!" Hamish complained as John hugged him but hugged back nonetheless.

John pulled back and bent low to assess his son's cuts. "Just let me make sure-"

"Dad! I said, I'm fine!" He swatted John's hands away from his face and walked past him to sit himself on the chair between his fathers' two.

Sherlock didn't look down at his son, but Hamish didn't look up either.

"Alright?" The detective asked quietly.

"Yup." Hamish responded, just as quiet.

John frowned, noticing how Hamish seemed to be picking up Sherlock's habits of dealing with pain by keeping silent.

"Hamish, do you want to tell your parents what happened?" Mr Jacobs asked, his tone completely changed to one of a soft and gentle nature. Sherlock scoffed at the man's ability to be so fake. John cleared his throat.

"No, Mr Jacobs. I'd rather wait until I get home. I don't really want to stay here much longer." Hamish answered. John and Sherlock shared a glance.

* * *

"_Four_?" John nearly choked on his tea.

"Well, there were four in total. Shouting, I mean. But only Sam actually hit me." Hamish answered, popping another biscuit into his mouth. John glanced worriedly at Sherlock who only gave him another look of _'I told you so'_.

"Hamish, what made him hit you?" The doctor asked seriously, returning his gaze to his son who was eating his way through an entire packet of Custard Creams.

Hamish paused, biscuit crumbs stuck to his lip. He reached for his own cup of tea and lifted it to drink, ignoring his father's question.

"_Hamish_." John warned. "Tell me what happened."

Silence.

"Hamish, what did you do?" Sherlock decided to word the question differently, earning a look of surpirse doubled with an impressed smirk off of his son.

"I told him." Hamish answered with a shrug.

"Told him what?" Sherlock grinned slightly. "What did you see?"

John cottoned on to what was going on and rolled his eyes.

"His tie."

"What about his tie?"

"It was stained, and fraying at the edges." Hamish answered, pleased that his father seemed proud.

"Good. And what did that tell you, Hamish?" Sherlock glanced triumphantly up at John who tried to display his annoyance but ended up chuckling and avoiding Sherlock's eyes. It was quite amusing to watch after all.

"That clearly it hadn't been washed, despite today being a Monday when he'd had the whole weekend for his mother to wash it." Hamish paused and the glint in Sherlock's eyes told him he was correct, so he continued. "Therefore, I told him that his mother hadn't washed it, and asked him why his relationship with her was so unstable."

John's eyes momentarily widened at his son's use of such advanced vocabulary.

"That could have just been because he forgot to give his uniform to his mother last week."

"No, because his shirt was clean, his trousers were too small and his shoes were scuffed. Clearly this wasn't an issue of forgetting, Father. He had to scrabble together a uniform out of what he could find. Luckily he had a clean shirt already in his wardrobe." Hamish rolled his blue eyes. "Do keep up."

Sherlock smirked. "Good. Anything else?"

"Sorry? _Good?_ He shouldn't just go asking about other kids' home lives, Sherlock!" John intervened and Hamish went back to eating biscuits.

"Why not?" Sherlock looked extremely put-out.

"Look," John sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "I understand that you're enjoying this. Clearly Hamish has picked up your deducing...skills." John stopped short of calling them 'habits'. "But I don't think we should encourage it, Sherlock. At least not yet."

Sherlock stayed silent and turned his head away from John, fixing his eyes on his son instead.

"I just..." John paused, contemplating whether to tread on the ground that he was about to venture into. He sat down beside Sherlock and fixed his gaze on Hamish too. "We know what it got you...at that age." His voice was lowered so Hamish couldn't hear. "I know you don't want the same for him, Sherlock. No one would." John continued, turning to face the detective now. "I'm happy too...that he's picked it up. But let's just...not encourage it, yeah?"

Sherlock stayed silent and John took that as a yes, albeit a slightly unwilling one.

"Right then!" John stood, causing Hamish to jump and drop his biscuit in his tea.

"Da-ad!" Hamish tutted and leapt up to grab a spoon from the kitchen.

John chuckled and apologised, turning to Sherlock to share the laughter. Except Sherlock wasn't laughing. He'd also stood up and was at the window, looking out onto Baker Street in contemplating silence.

John sighed quietly. He knew he shouldn't have brought it up.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." John approached him slowly. "Hey, look at me."

Hamish rushed back into the room to retrieve his biscuit but didn't take notice of either of his parents.

"It's fine, John. It's alright." Sherlock didn't turn around, a frown set in his forehead as he watched Baker Street go about it's business.

"No it's not I'm a terrible husband and a shitty doctor if I can so easily cause you pain from memory like that." John reached Sherlock sighed and turned him to look at him.

"What's this got to do with you being a doctor?"

"I should be a caring person! And clearly I'm not always...I'm sorry for dredgin up old memories." He stroked Sherlock's arm and Sherlock stared at him for a second before smiling softly, something even John rarely saw him do.

"It's ok. Don't worry about it, John." He leant forward and pressed an affectionate kiss to the doctor's forhead before stepping away and disappearing into the kitchen.

John frowned and pursed his lips in thought. He was going to worry about it rergardless of whether Sherlock told him not to.

He just hoped Mycroft didn't find out that he'd caused Sherlock to reminicse about his childhood. Lord knows what the British Government would do to the man that did that.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Note: To avoid confusion. The video is written in italics, present goings on are written normally. **_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

"Okay, matey. I think that cues bedtime for you." John grimaced as he wiped mashed banana from his cheek. He stood and lifted the bright-eyed boy from his highchair, settling him on his hip before turning to Sherlock who was busy squeezing pipettes of...something... into various coloured petri dishes.

"Do you want to have a try tonight?" He offered, raising both eyebrows.

"No." Sherlock answered in a heartbeat before looking up and flashing a not-so-sincere smile at John. "Thank you."

Sighing, John readjusted Hamish who'd decide to glide his mashed-banana-covered hands through John's hair -_ For god's sake I need to remember to wipe him clean next time_.

"Look, Sherlock. I know he's not been very good at bedtimes recently. But maybe he just needs a change in routine? You never know, he might drop off quicker if you tuck him in."

"John I am very busy and I know-"

"Yeah, fine. Alright. Don't worry about it then." John cut him short with a huff and turned, leaving the room without giving Sherlock the opportunity to redeem himself.

* * *

"I told you moving him to your old room was a mistake, John." Sherlock grumbled and frowned down his microscope as Hamish's wails grew louder.

"Why does he always have to cry?" John winced as he washed up Hamish's banana-smeared plate in the sink. "Every night, he's always crying..."

"It's his age, John. You should know that. Don't ordinary people refer to it as the 'Terrible Two's'?" Sherlock scoffed has a reached blindly out to his side for the other petri dish.

John wiped the plate dry and darted to pass the petri dish to his husband before he knocked something acidic all over the table.

"He's not two yet, Sherlock."

"Almost. Besides, you said yourself he's a fast learner, John." Sherlock said as he slid the new dish under the microscope. "Maybe you should avoid feeding him so late at night." He added without a word of thanks for John's help.

"It was only banana, Sherlock. And it was a one-off." John rolled his eyes.

"If you force fed me mashed banana before bed I would cry all night too, John."

"I didn't force feed him!" John protested.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow and continued in silence.

* * *

John frowned at his laptop screen. His USB stick blinked rhythmically from where it stuck out the side of machine and the only light in the room was coming from the screen itself. John watched as the screen played the video.

_He was fumbling with the camera having just switched it on, Hamish was stood up in his cot, hands grasping the top of the bars and flinging himself backwards and forwards, wailing at the top of his lungs. _

_"Ssh, Hamish. Calm down." John's voice was barely audible over the wails, even though he was closer to the camera. "Alright, come on matey. Please stop crying." _

_John finally managed to secure the camera so that Hamish's cot was in view before moving over to the side of the cot and lifting his son out of it. He walked over to the changing table and pressed a button on a small blue machine. Immediately, 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' began to play out throughout the room and Sherlock's groan was audible from the all the way downstairs. John chuckled, both on screen and off, and smiled lightly as Hamish had finally stopped crying. He bounced him gently in time to the nursery rhyme until it had ended, before lowering him back down into his cot and sliding the bars up slowly. Hamish wasn't quite asleep, but he seemed sleepier than he was and he wasn't crying any longer which allowed John to let out a sigh of relief. _

_John clicked the machine on again and quietly left the room. _

Choosing to fast forward most of the night now that Hamish was too tired to wail any longer, John held his finger down on the button, watching the time in the corner of the screen go from 10:00pm (Hamish easily kept them awake until late in the evening) all the way through to 2:35am with only a few shuffles of movement from the cot and nothing else. But by 3:13am, Hamish had pulled himself up and was wailing to be let out. Apparently he had decided it was morning.

John sighed and stretched his hands behind his head as he watched himself reappear on the screen.

_He was wearing his pyjama trousers and had pulled on his dressing down, leaving it undone. He sleepily trudged over to the cot, a disgruntled grimace quite clear on his face, and lifted his son out. Repeating the same routine as earlier on, he bounced Hamish gently to the rhythm of the nursery rhyme before lowering him back into his cot once again. _

This whole ordeal repeated itself another time before it reached 6:00.

_As the clock in the corner reached 5:58am, Hamish decided enough was enough and began rattling the bars of his cot with such force, it was Mrs Hudson who padded softly into his room and soothed his tear-stricken face before lifting him up and out, carrying him out of the room on her hip._

John decided not to mention that he'd filmed her retrieve their son. She was in her nightgown and he thought it best it went unnoticed that she'd been recorded in it.

Sherlock didn't know about John's little experiment either. He'd kept it to himself, hoping that everything remained normal because he had done so. Otherwise he would end up with unreliable results.

It wasn't a fancy experiment. Nothing like any of Sherlock's. John just decided that if he filmed the goings-on of Hamish's nights, he'd understand his son a little better. But so far, it seemed that the little lad just woke up and got bored. Reminding John of a certain other toddler in his care.

* * *

The third night's recording, John had worked a late shift at the surgery and was more tired than usual._ He only danced with Hamish through one song of Twinkle Twinkle before setting him down and disappearing._

Like before, John fast-forwarded Hamish's pre-sleep shuffles until the clock reached the usual 3:15am.

_The 2-year-old snuffled as he gradually stood himself up and grasped onto the top of the bars for support. _

John grimaced a little as he watched.

_His son's face slowly contorted into a scrunched up frown and the soft sound of quiet cries filled the room. This time, it took a whole 20 minutes for John to make it to Hamish's bedroom. _

John worked out that it was because he was more tired than usual and so must have been sleeping more deeply therefore unable to hear Hamish's first few cries.

_On the screen, John carefully soothed Hamish from outside the cot; his hand gently stroking his son's dark curls until the young toddler was lulled into a sleepy state enough for him to sink back down onto his bottom and flop slowly onto his side. _

John smiled and felt his chest swell with love for his son as he watched him sleepily flop over, his curls falling onto his forehead.

* * *

John set a cup of tea down next to his laptop and took a bite of toast, brushing his hands together to get rid of any crumbs before switching the machine on.

"I'm needed at the Yard." Sherlock suddenly appeared from the kitchen and made straight for the hall to grab his coat. He poked his head round the door only seconds later with an inquisitive frown. "You're...staying here?"

John nodded with another mouthful of toast as his laptop booted up. He was glad that his mug of tea was blocking Sherlock's view of the USB stick stuck into the side of the machine. He swallowed his toast and answered; "Yeah, I've got, err, some cases to be catching up on." He pointed to his laptop.

Sherlock paused, his eyes scanning John momentarily, gazing over the desk and laptop before he seemingly decided all was well. "As you wish. I'll be back later then." And he was gone.

John waited for the sound of the front door closing before opening up the files from the memory stick.

"Yoo hoo!" Mrs Hudson tapped on the doorframe as she entered the lounge and John inwardly sighed at the second interruption. "John! Do you need me to look after Hamish while you're busy with all that? I'm not your nanny, dear, but I have some biscuits downstairs if he would like them?" She smiled warmly and John took back his earlier sigh of frustration.

"If you wouldn't mind, that'd be great yeah." He answered gratefully. "He's still in his highchair at the minute but he's only had juice this morning. He refused his breakfast."

"Yes, my little Nathan did that a lot at that age." Mrs Hudson waved at little Hamish as she entered the kitchen and the boy's eye lit up.

"Hudsa!" He attempted and clapped his hands happily. She smiled and lifted him out of his chair before turning back to John.

"You have a son, Mrs Hudson?" John sounded genuinely surprised.

"Oh no, dear. Nathan was my nephew. I looked after him a lot though." She re-entered the lounge and headed for the door. "I'll bring him back later."

"That's fine. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John smiled and the landlady returned it warmly.

"Daddy bye-bye!" Hamish giggled and waved his arm.

John grinned up at his son. "Bye bye, H. See you later!"

He smiled long after they'd left and finally shook himself back to present and clicked on the newest video file.

He was glad he was alone to watch this one, because it meant he could assess the newest stage of his experiment with better concentration.

Stage 2 meant John was no longer allowed to visit Hamish to sooth him in the night. He wanted to see what Hamish's coping strategy would be when no one turned up to baby him. John felt a bit cruel, but by the age of 3 or 4, Hamish would be old enough to settle himself back down to sleep should he need to. He was a fast-learning child and John had every confidence he would be fine at it when the time came.

It was hard to do so, but last night, despite Hamish's cries, John stayed in bed. Luckily, Sherlock never woke to ask why he'd not gotten up to see to their son, neither did he get up himself.

The video was relatively boring, actually.

_John did the usual bed time routine, danced with Hamish gently before setting him down and leaving the room. _

Like all the other videos, John fast-forwarded to 3:15am and frowned.

_Hamish shuffled around a bit, reaching to grab a hold of a stuffed hedgehog in the corner of his cot, before pulling towards him and snuggling back down to sleep. _

John frowned deeper, rewinding and watching it again to make sure he'd definitely got the time right and that grabbing the stuffed toy was really all that Hamish did during the usual 'Wail like a Banshee' hour.

With a shrug, John fast-forwarded again. Nothing. Absolutely no crying whatsoever. That would explain why Sherlock didn't wake questioning why John hadn't got up.

After contemplating that Sherlock might have drugged their son with a sedative, John put it down the typical fact that last night was an anomaly and Hamish had just had a good night for a change.

The doctor sighed and sipped his tea. It seemed Stage 2 would string out for another night.

* * *

Stage 2: Attempt 2.

John waited for Sherlock to get in the shower and Hamish to be busy playing with a puzzle set on the lounge floor before he clicked open the video file from the night before.

_The usual bed time routine. John left and Hamish gripped his toy hedgehog tightly. _

John fast-forwarded, glancing at Hamish on the floor to make sure he was alright before returning his gaze to the screen. Only to stop dead.

_There was a dark shape standing in the far left side of the screen, only slightly in shot. Hamish was standing in his cot, hands gripping the top of the bars tightly. His eyes were fixed on the shape and he looked bewildered. _

John felt his guts turn to cold spaghetti as he realised without doubt that the tall shape wasn't him.

_The shape stepped further into shot. It seemed tentative and hesitant to get any closer. The weirdest thing was that Hamish wasn't crying. He was awake, but no sound was coming out of his usually-loud little mouth. He was just staring at the shape in awe. _

John could've thrown something at the screen when the figure crouched beside the cot and its' errant, sleep-fluffed curls were lit up by the streetlight through the window. Fucking Sherlock.

John felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal.

"_Why aren't you crying, little one?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious and a little concerned as he crouched down to Hamish's level. _

_Sherlock reached a hand slowly through the bars and tickled Hamish's chin lightly. The boy giggled and scrunched his chin to his chest in an attempt to stop his father from tickling him. _

"_Pa-pa!" Hamish beamed brightly and Sherlock hushed him. _

"_Ssh, ssh. Not too loud. Daddy's asleep." He brought his hand back through the bars again but stayed crouching at his son's level. "And you should be too." _

_He straightened up and reached down to stroke the back of Hamish's head gently before encouraging him to lay back down again. "Sleep now, Hamish. Night night."_

"_Daddy ni-ni!" He called from his cot and Sherlock smiled slightly before disappearing out of shot. _

John paused the video.

Never before had he been aware of Sherlock visiting Hamish during the night. And the evidence from the past few nights had proved it was a rare occasion. Did Sherlock know about John's experiment? There was every possibility he did. Maybe he was just trying to stir up unreliable results because he found John's attempt 'ridiculous' or 'unnecessary'.

Still, John wouldn't confront him just yet. There was something about watching Sherlock behaving so fatherly that he enjoyed. So Stage 2 stretched on a bit longer.

* * *

_The next night there was no sign of Sherlock again. And Hamish didn't cry again. _

* * *

_The night after that Sherlock only ruffled Hamish's curls in his sleep before leaving silently. _John smiled at that one.

* * *

_The night after that Hamish did cry and after a few minutes of being alone, he was gently soothed back to sleep by Sherlock softly playing a short violin piece for him. _John smiled at that one too.

* * *

The following night was by far the best for John. It left him feeling warm inside and a stupid grin plastered across his face.

_It was 3:15am. The usual crying time for Hamish, although the past few nights he'd seemed to break this rule. Tonight he was up and wailing dead on time and John never entered the bedroom. _

_Sherlock did, however. No violin. No chin tickling. Not even a word was uttered. Hamish extended his arms up to Sherlock, wanting to be lifted out as he shouted "Up! Papa, up!" _

_Sherlock didn't lift the boy out of his cot. Instead, he lifted a pyjama-clad leg over the bars, shortly followed by the other one, and settled down to sit beside his son who stared at him in confusion. _

_The detective shuffled to lie down awkwardly, his legs bent up slightly and his head propped on the cushioned lining of the cot. Hamish immediately sunk to flop himself over Sherlock, his arms hooking themselves around his father's neck. His cries were still loud but Sherlock moved a hand and started stroking his back gently. _

_Hamish continued to shuffle about a bit, obviously not used to having to share his crib with anyone, let alone a tall, lanky man like Sherlock. But eventually he settled, his body perpendicular to Sherlock's with his tiny head using his father's stomach as a pillow, his legs bent under his own belly like a frog. His crying ceased and his hands gripped themselves in Sherlock's t-shirt, willing him not to leave. _

_They stayed like this for a few minutes, neither moving. Sherlock's eyes were closed but he wasn't sleeping. This was obvious from the way he kept peeking one eye open every so often to see if Hamish was asleep yet. He wasn't. He turned his head to the other side and rubbed his eyes before settling down again and Sherlock rolled his eyes. _

John grinned. It was a night where Sherlock must've been far from tired, something that being stuck in a cot would make very frustrating!

_A lot of time passed without much movement from Hamish so Sherlock made an attempt to slip out unnoticed. Only to wake Hamish again, the boy sitting bolt upright and looking around himself in his sleepy state before flopping back down onto his father's stomach, further across it this time and so restricting him even more from his escape. _

John chuckled as he watched his husband struggle.

_Sherlock groaned and readjusted his position back to how he was. Hamish settled down once again and his breathing pattern evened out._

John didn't fast-forward any of this video. It was far too heart-warming. And amusing.

_Sherlock looked around the room, obviously trying to deduce a way out. Every now and again Hamish would stir and he'd stop dead in his tracks. He visibly sighed and dropped his head back onto the cushion, grumbling when the stuffed hedgehog poked him in the neck. _

_More time passed, each attempt at an escape lead to Hamish readjusting his position and making it harder. He went from resting just his head on Sherlock's torso, to laying his whole body across him and curling up into a ball, his head tucked under Sherlock's arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes as his every attempt was shot down. _

_At one point, Sherlock seemingly accepted his fate and lifted Hamish up so he could move himself into a more comfortable position. But as soon as he had found one and put Hamish down again, the boy woke and got to his feet, gripping the bars and crying loudly. _

_Sherlock groaned and threw his head back in annoyance. _

John laughed. He could tell Sherlock was starting to regret his plan.

_The detective quickly sat up and pulled Hamish into a hug, soothing him gently and quietening his cries once again. After some more manoeuvring, Hamish was back asleep. His whole body on top of Sherlock's, head and arms splayed across his chest, legs tucked up under him like a frog._

_This was how they stayed for ages, with only the odd shuffle from Sherlock attempting to get the blood flow back to his feet without waking his son._

_All the hard work and shuffling about seemed to have tired them both out though because by 6:00am Sherlock was asleep too; one hand spread protectively across Hamish's back, the other gripping the stuffed hedgehog tightly. _


End file.
